


3am

by NoStringsOnMe



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: it's not really romantic, like at all, therapeutic chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awoken by a nightmare, Bucky heads to the roof but finds he is not alone. Natasha is there and has something to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3am

**Author's Note:**

> I took a lot of artistic licence with the actual canon. I just wanted to write.

The nightmare clings to me. It pools in the hollows and crevices of my body even as I bolt upright with the darkness rushing at me. Dark shapes twist and dance in the corners of my vision. Panic clutches at my chest, tight and hollow, tearing at my throat, clawing its way up my cheeks. 

I scramble to remember where I am. The room suddenly unfamiliar and strange. Walls with pictures, long, dark curtains over the windows, low bed, soft blanket, city skyline.

It is the skyline that brings me back. For all it has changed it is still reassuringly familiar. All the programming in the world couldn't dig those roots out. I am home.

Chest heaving, I tear the damp, tangled sheets from my legs, swinging them over the edge of the bed. I let my head fall into my hands, a movement familiar from a time I can't quite recall, but the moment the cool metal touches my clammy skin I cringe away. Disgust clenches painfully in my gut and I hold my arm away from my body, not wanting another reminder.

Leftover images of the nightmare flash before my eyes and I let my right hand curl into my hair, tugging hard in hopes to distract myself. It works somewhat. My other hand clenches the mattress and I wonder idly how hard I would have to grip to rip the material to shreds. Not very probably. 

Knowing the chances are slim that I could get back to sleep, I stand and pull the nearest hoodie from the pile of discarded clothes next to my bed. 

I pad softly out of my room and down the hall, the tower seems to sigh in the night as the wind swirls around it. There is a hum of machines all around me and the whir of of fans, the tower has always felt alive to me, like it was breathing. When I first arrived, I would lie awake and listen to it breathing because I couldn't let myself sleep. I was coiled too tightly for sleep and closing my eyes meant seeing, hearing, feeling all the things I wanted to run from. All the things I would still like to run from.

At the end of the hall I turn left and take the stairs two at a time up to the roof. Shouldering through the door I am welcomed by a cool breeze encircling my legs and lifting the loose hairs around my face. 

And it appears I am not the only one that cannot sleep.

Her red hair stands out even against the black blanket she has wrapped herself in as she surveys the city beneath her. I let the door bang shut behind me. She barely twitches.

"So, why can't you sleep," I ask, coming over and standing shoulder to shoulder with her.

"Same reason as you I imagine." 

She doesn't elaborate more than that, just keeps her eyes sweeping the city. I nod and shuffle my feet a little, hands shoved deep in my hoodie pockets. Normally the roof is deserted and I can sit here until morning when Steve will bring me coffee because JARVIS told him where I am. Not tonight.

"I like watching the city when I can't sleep," I blurt, overcome with the need to explain why I'm here. "It calm me down . . . It's familiar, you know? For all its changed it's still the same, it's still my home."

She turns her eyes to me now, holding my gaze in a steady, unflinching way. There is a pause long enough to let the city noise swell between us. She cocks her head to the side slightly and her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

"You dont need to explain yourself to me, Sir."

It is out of her mouth before she can stop herself. A hand lies to her mouth and my eyes are pulled from hers to the rough red scars encircling her left wrist. From deep within me something stirs; a long forgotten memory from a different time, half formed and blurry images, young girls in the snow.

Somewhere in the distance a police siren wails.

"I don't suppose you remember," she muses, more to herself than to me.

She lowers her hand and turns back to the city, arms curled around her torso, the blanket still draped around her shoulders like a cloak. I am acutely aware of the electric energy that has sparked up between us. Angling my body towards her I wait for her to explain. She knows me; she can shed more light on who I am. 

Steve tells me I am James Buchanan Barnes but it has been so long since I was him and I have lived too many lives since then. I have to piece together a new life using what can be recovered from before so I can move forward. 

"We've met before actually, several times," she murmurs, idly trailing her fingers up her bare arm. 

Slowly, I nod. More snow and a compound floats to the surface.

"It was cold the first time, wasn't it?" 

An affirmative noise.

"It was mid winter and the snow was up to our elbows," she explains. Her voice is hesitant, unsure, not used to telling this story yet determined to tell it. "We were mangy girls, all bone and no muscle. You were there to change that; make us stronger, hit harder, aim sharper; make us better in every way."

As she speaks I see skinny legs bruised purple, faces red from exertion, heavy lidded eyes with blank stares. But by the times the snows melted the punches DID hit harder and the shots WERE sharper.

"We never knew your name. We only ever call you Sir. I'm sorry, it just slipped out," she says, glancing my way once more.

I realise as we stand on the roof of The Avenger's Tower that this is the only time I've seen her with her guard down. Standing next to me with the wind ruffling her hair she appears so much younger than I have ever seen her. There is no snarky comment on her lips, ready to dismiss anything she has said but I watch as she presses them together with tight eyes. For something to do she pulls the blanket tight around her body and turns back to the twinkling lights and rush of cars. 

"What was I like?" I ask, chest tightening and pulse quickening, overcome with the need to know exactly what she remembered about me. 

"Ruthlessly efficient," she replies.

I flinch, looking away and focusing my attention on the dim figures moving in an apartment across the road. Of course . . .

"But never cruel," she adds when she senses my discomfort. "We had the Ladies for that. You were there to guide and teach."

"For how long?"

"A year and a half or so. You only came back to see us graduate."

Silence fell between us once more and I let myself listen to the noises once more. Voices are lost but the city has its own voice one of engines and the hustle and bustle that even existed at 4 in the morning. It resonated within me, helped my thoughts straighten out. 

Unbidden another memory appeared to me, still fuzzy and half formed but it rose up nonetheless, of a lanky girl with flame haired pigtails, kicking and punching at me. Anger flushed her pale cheeks as she tried to land a punch past my air tight guard. Bang. A punch to the right cheek floored her, opening up a series of cuts. Blood beading, she panted on the floor for only a moment before struggling to her feet and putting her fists up once more, determination flashing in her green eyes.

"You were the best. Slightly reluctant to accept it but the best all the same."

The words fall out of my mouth instinctively. I don't think them but they are there ready to be said. She doesn't bat an eye, only inclines her head and hitches one shoulder, not denying it. A badly hidden look of bitterness twists her mouth for a moment. There is no pride in being told you're a good killer, something I can understand. But after all, it takes one to know one and I was one long before I had the metal arm.

She turns to me suddenly, a smirk pulling on her lips.

"I was your favourite," she tells me, eyes glimmering. "I got your only smile. I don't really remember for what exactly."

The last part was a lie but I'm not going to push it. She doesn't have to be telling me all this, I'll take what I can get and if she wants to keep her secrets then let her. From what I've learned, I can't have smiled for anything "good" and that sets my stomach twisting, nightmarish images flash in front of my eyes and my skin prickles with sweat once more. But I push it away, I push past the lump in my throat, focusing on the woman next to me, to ask:

"Does Steve know?" My question comes out strained, my voice strangely distorted.

I realise, out of all the people, I don't want Steve to know about all these things I've done. I want to keep it a secret, keep it to myself so that he won't look at me with those sad eyes. But that won't happen. I have to lay bare everything; every broken piece must be accounted for.

"No, he doesn't know that," she informs me. "He only knows of the third time."

I listen as she tells me the story of the Iranian scientist and shows me that ugly mess of scar marring her hip. I can't tear my eyes away from the tangle of scar tissue; Steve bares no marks from our encounters but she does. 

"Had I told him it would only have been a distraction. He had enough to worry about without me adding to it. He'll find out soon enough and I'll deal with that fallout when it comes but . . . There was no need for him to know at the time."

"We all have our secrets," I murmur. Her laugh is humourless.

"You're not wrong and I only have a few left to keep."

From our vantage point on the roof of the tower I can see the river shimmering in the distance. It's constantly moving, glittering, reflecting all the light back at us in a kaleidoscope beauty. It is a vein within the organism of the city. Each surge of noise, the heartbeat; each person, a limb with a purpose. And then there is me. The virus. 

My throat tightens and my fists clench in my hoodie pockets as the guilt, confusion, disgust, rises back up, pricking my skin with heat once more.

“I didn’t take it personally,” she said eventually, softly, so as to ease our silence to the side. “There was something different and we were on opposing sides. It was business.”

Her voice soothes the burning across my skin, calming the heartbeat that had shot up. Green eyes seek out my own colourless ones and I allow myself to lock into her gaze. There is no judgement, no grudge; her eyes are clear, totally unguarded, and determined. Flames fan at the edge of those still green pools; the wind has strengthened but she doesn’t break away.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because, we’re not so different. We’ve both done things ” She shrugs, finally breaking eye contact and something lurches within me. “I know what it’s like; trying to work out who are you, what you like amongst all the bullshit. ‘Do I like dancing? Do I like the colour blue? Or was even that programmed into me?’ It’s exhausting.”

“I’ve always liked the colour blue,” I offer. My mouth hitches at one side; it’s a lame attempt at lightening the mood but she indulges me, lips parting in a sweet smile, not a trace of a smirk to be seen.

“Figures. . . Look, I just want you to have all the pieces to choose from.” The words spill out in a rush. “I thought it would help.”

Before I can open my mouth she is turning to leave, her fingers brushing the exposed metal of my wrist, sending the heat sensors a blaze in one shining moment. But the moment it registers, her hand is retreating back within the folds of her blanket and she is walking towards the door. 

“Natasha!” She stops, turning her hard, green eyes back to me once more. “Thank-you.”

Her smile stays with me until the sun comes up.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a Steve/Bucky fic but then it turned into this, whatever this is. Hope you liked it all the same!


End file.
